


The Missing Tee

by suqua (cwsunrise)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Boyfriends, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-08
Updated: 2012-10-14
Packaged: 2017-11-15 21:46:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/532118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cwsunrise/pseuds/suqua
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint borrows something of Phil's...well, he tries to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"You did laundry," Clint says, accusing. 

Phil looks over at Clint, over their bed, knotting his tie precisely. "Yes?" 

Clint points at the chest of drawers, just opposite the room of their bed. "There was a t-shirt right there."

Eyes following the indication, he looks back at Clint. "Yes, one of mine. I washed it." It was put away, along with the rest of his shirts. "I did a _lot_ of laundry, actually. Do you ever do your own?"

Ignoring the question, Clint's jaw clenches a little almost like he's angry but Phil knows better. Clint Barton was _pouting_. 

"Did I do something wrong, Barton?" He asks wearily, letting the tie fall exactly parallel with his shirt buttons. 

They were headed in different directions, separate missions. Clint for two weeks, Phil for one. It was also 4 am, but they were both used to the odd hours. This was normal for them.

Clint fiddled with the edge of the comforter, still pouting. He didn't speak, already ready to leave since he'd merely pulled on a tee and trousers since his suit was at the helicarrier. 

"Barton?" Phil tried again.

All he got back was a bit of a mutter.

"Pardon?"

Then Clint blurted, "I said, I was going to _wear_ it." 

The moment of silence that follows the outburst goes on a moment too long for Clint, who starts stalking toward the door in order to flee the situation and his embarrassment. Phil grabs his arm, is pleased to find Clint doesn't pull away. He turns his back on his waiting suit jacket. 

After watching the pouting, avoiding-Phil's-eyes look on Clint's face, Phil can't resist a second longer and leans over to give Clint a gentle kiss. Taking just shy of two seconds to respond, Clint presses back and grips lightly onto the cuff of Phil's shirt. Phil let them pretend they had the time for a kiss, indulgent. And yet, when Phil pulls away, Clint is still pouting.

"I'm sorry," Phil says simply, still smiling. Wider, even. 

Clint doesn't smile back, not at first, but then he eventually does, stepping away and scratching at his forehead with one thumb. "No. Sorry," he mutters, looking a little flushed around the ears suddenly. "I'm not mad-"

"I know."

Blushing a little harder, Clint looks at him. "Just a good luck charm for when we're not," he doesn't have to indicate anything, just swallows and continues, "You didn't uh, notice before. I guess."

Thinking back, Phil couldn't recall ever noticing a shirt gone missing since they've been together. They weren't often on different missions and he usually didn't stick around the too-quiet apartment in Stark tower when Clint wasn't there. 

"I wanted one," Clint says, cheeks coloring darker rapidly as he tries to explain himself, "That you'd worn because the clean laundry all smells the same..." 

Lips threatening to twitch into a wider smile, Phil quiets him with another kiss, leaves his forehead against Clint's. "I understand," he says quietly, "I'm sorry, Clint." 

Clint sighs and his shoulders slump a little. Still pouting. 

Phil's smile twitches again. "But...I did _just_ take off the shirt I wore to bed last night." 

Automatically, Clint's eyes rise to Phil's and there's that brightness that Phil loves firing up in them. "Fuck," Clint says through a grin, something about it sounding like he's on the verge of laughter. "I...didn't even think of that." He was blushing hard again, now shaking with a bit of laughter.

Clint kisses the hell out of him for several minutes they don't really have at this point, then runs off to the bathroom to collect his prize. 

They leave for their missions together, linger a moment before separating on the helicarrier. Phil's bag is a little heavier, not noticeably, by the addition of a purple tee.


	2. Home Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint comes home: sleeps, wakes, and sleeps some more. He loves Phil so very much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I admit it, I'm a Phlint fluff loving fan. So, when I saw other people love fluffy Phlint I had to write a little more for this story.

It’s just after 3am that Clint stumbles into their Avengers tower bedroom. Phil is mostly asleep, wide awake as soon as he hears the thud of feet just outside the door. It couldn’t have been anyone else, not even Tony Stark wanted to try sneaking up on a sleeping Phil Coulson.   
  
Clint drops his bag on the floor with a loud thump. He already knew Phil was awake. “Honey, I’m home,” he sing-songs into the dark, already starting to strip.   
  
“Honey, you’re sleep deprived,” Phil responds deadpan, not even sitting up.  
  
There’s some more muffled sounds of Clint’s clothing hitting the floor, as he gets closer Phil can already smell the extra-strong SHIELD-issue body wash coming off of him like waves. “Ugh.”   
  
“Hey, I had to. Natasha said I smelled like a sewer rat. Cut me some slack.”   
  
The response from Phil is wry and makes Clint chuckle. “Nope.”  
  
Not bothering for pajamas, Clint’s in his boxers and shirt as he climbs into the big bed. Phil, then on his back, turns on his side facing away so Clint can cuddle up to his back.  
  
Clint hums contentedly as soon as he finishes plastering himself to Phil. “Missed you,” he mumbles into his skin, nose poking into Phil’s hair.  
  
Phil can feel Clint’s body heat, spiking already as his body starts the process of falling asleep. “I missed you too. Glad you’re home.”   
  
There’s quiet for maybe a few seconds before Clint says, “I got sunburn again. Hurts.”  
  
“I’ll get some aloe in the morning.”  
  
Clint’s got one arm slung over Phil’s side, hand on his belly. His voice is a little hesitant. “And I ripped your shirt.”  
  
“I’ll get you a sewing kit too. Go to sleep.”  
  
A few more blessed seconds of quiet and Phil’s almost sure Clint’s gone to sleep when he feels Clint’s hand travel up his chest. It pauses just over his heart.   
  
“Hey,” Clint’s voice is low, awed. “You’re wearing my shirt.”  
  
Phil was a little surprised. It was a plain tee-shirt, no decoration or design on it at all. “You can tell just by feeling it?”  
  
“Well, it’s my shirt, isn’t it?”  
  
Pausing, Phil lets out a soft noise that’s just barely a laugh. “Yeah. It is.”  
  
It seems Clint is satisfied with that, hand staying there. “G’night,” he mutters into Phil’s nape, staying close and snug.

 

 

* * *

 

The first thing Clint sees when he wakes up the next morning is a bottle of aloe lotion on the nightstand. He stares at it blearily, the bottle just a greenish blur as one side of his face was still mashed into the pillow. Clint lets himself wake up slowly before he feels the tight ache of the sunburn across his forehead, cheeks, and nose.   
  
“Mnnngh,” he groans. “Fuck. Ow.”  
  
Clint inhales sharply, brings a hand up to his face to rub his eye. He’s already forgotten the sunburn, shoves his hand into one on the top of his cheekbone before he remembers. He sucks in a breath as that sends a sharp zing of pain pulsing over his nerves. “Fuck.”   
  
“Put some of that on before you hurt yourself,” Phil calls from the bathroom. Clint looks up at the half-open bathroom door with a soft glare that stings a little. He grabs the lotion with a sloppy jab of his hand and nearly knocks it over.   
  
He growls at it because Clint was usually cranky the night after getting home from a mission. It didn't usually last long past when he got some food in him, though.  
  
“Made you pancakes,” Phil’s voice comes again. “They’re cold.”  
  
Clint loved cold pancakes. One slathered with jam and the other with peanut butter. Pancake PB&J was one of his favorite things in the world.  
  
He put the damn lotion on his damn sunburn and sighed, dropping back onto the bed. The cool, comforting aloe soothes the aching burn away and he relaxes. He finds the pancakes, already peanut butter and jam on them, wolfs them down and feels his empty stomach’s ache start to recede. His mood betters quickly.  
  
It’s only a couple minutes later that Phil emerges from the bathroom, the scent of aftershave following him.   
  
“You’re...” Clint started, watching Phil circle the bed with one raised brow. “Still wearing my shirt? And...pajama pants? Wait, how long did I sleep?”  
  
Phil took a seat on his side of the bed, picking up his reading glasses and the book on his bedside table. “It’s just after noon, you slept just under nine hours,” he says matter-of-factly as he opened the book to the folded page.   
  
Clint reaches over for the book, Phil lets him take it and re-fold the page. Then Clint shifts over, gently removes Phil’s reading glasses. He puts both aside, Phil watches him with a slight smile.  
  
With a hand rested on Phil’s stomach, Clint leans over and kisses him gently. Lifting a hand, Phil rests it on the back of Clint’s neck and they part from the kiss a second later. “Missed you,” Clint says again, doesn’t remember saying it the night before. “Did you wear this the entire time I was gone?”  
  
“Not the entire time,” Phil says, still smiling. “I had to wash it...But I did wear it to work once, under my shirt.”  
  
Clint sucks in a breath. “Huh,” he says, finding that fact a little too hard on his heart. “Jesus.” He looks at Phil with a quirk of a smile on his lips before he kisses Phil again. They kiss slowly, comfortable, a beam of sunlight from the window and the taste of pancakes on Clint’s tongue.  
  
A second later Clint’s handing the book and glasses back over, positioning Phil so he can curl against his side. He’s still pretty tired, muscles worn out and face stinging under the lotion.   
  
Phil settles with his glasses back on and book held with one hand, somehow turning the pages with just his thumb. His other hand is curled onto Clint’s shoulder, bare feet crossed at the ankles.  
  
With his cheek mashed against Phil’s shoulder, Clint’s eyes start to get heavy again. He can smell Phil’s aftershave strongly here, eyes full of the bright fuscia of the shirt as he stares across Phil’s collar. Clint grins. “Purple’s a good color on you, Phil, you should wear it more often,” he says, shutting his eyes and rubbing his cheek against the shirt as he settles into a nap. “Waaay more often.”   
  
Phil just smiles, turns the page, and rubs a gentle circle onto Clint’s shoulder with his thumb.


End file.
